


A Million Girls

by Piscaria



Category: The Devil Wears Prada
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Andy runs into Miranda's new second assistant, she learns that Miranda's ability to ruin a good day doesn't just extend to her employees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Girls

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for [](http://afro-dyte.livejournal.com/profile)[**afro_dyte**](http://afro-dyte.livejournal.com/)'s 48-hour challenge. It's too long to strictly qualify, but I couldn't pare it down any further without hurting the story. Many thanks to [](http://oddmanrush.livejournal.com/profile)[**oddmanrush**](http://oddmanrush.livejournal.com/) for the quick beta.

The clacker was staring at her.

Andy hadn't been sure, at first, but she was growing more certain by the minute. As casually as possible, she turned in her seat to look out the deli window, in case somebody important were standing behind her. The bustling lunch-time crowds streamed down the sidewalks, but Andy saw nothing that could have warranted the clacker's attention for -- she checked her watch -- five whole minutes. Nervously, she turned back around, to glance at the woman sitting at the next table. Yep. Still staring.

She was a tiny woman, doll-like, really, with a fake tan and glossy blonde curls that swept down to her shoulders. She wore Pucci boots and a last-season Prada miniskirt; her bag was Chanel. Her eye make-up was smeared, her nose was red, her cheeks were obviously tear stained -- that, even more than the clothes, told Andy that this woman worked for Miranda Priestly. Andy had worked for Miranda herself, once. She recognized the signs.

"Excuse me," Andy said, finally deciding to take the bull by the horns. "Do I know you?" Maybe they'd worked for Runway together. It was possible. Runway was a big magazine, and Andy hadn't met everybody there.

But the woman shook her head, breaking into a fresh bout of tears.

"Oh," Andy said. "Oh dear." She dug through her purse for her package of tissues -- she'd started carrying them during her own Runway days. Pulling one out, she handed it to the clacker, who dabbed delicately at her eyes.

"Thank you," she sniffed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. It's just . . . you're Andrea Sachs, aren't you?"

"Who --" Andy started.

The other woman shook herself. "I"m sorry," she said. "You probably think I'm crazy. I'm Lisa Gaines. I got your old job."

"You're Miranda's second assistant?"

"I was," Lisa sniffed. "Miranda fired me. Just a few minutes ago."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"I've always dreamed about working for Runway," Lisa said in a little voice. "I adore Miranda Priestly. I wrote an essay about her in high school. We had to write about our biggest hero." Her voice broke, and she started crying again. Andy handed her another tissue. Lisa took it, then straightened in her seat. Her eyes narrowed.

"I couldn't do anything to please her. It was always 'if Andrea were here,' or 'Andrea would never do something so stupid.' She didn't even bother to learn my name. She called _me_ 'Andrea,'" Lisa mimicked Miranda's pronunciation of the name. "Finally I googled you to find out who that . . . superwoman was. That's how I recognized you. There's a picture with one of your articles."

"Oh," Andy stammered, flattered, embarrassed, and bewildered all at once. "Gosh. I'm sorry. That's just Miranda. She treated me like that, too, at first. It takes a lot to win her confidence."

Lisa glared at her, and stood, reaching into her purse. "Well if you're so special, maybe you can get me my job back."

"I don't think I," Andy started, and then screamed.

Lisa had pulled a gun from her purse, and was aiming it at Andy. All around them, people were screaming and ducking under tables. Andy froze.

"Call the cops," someone shouted. Andy hoped that someone would. Her own cellphone was in her purse. She wondered if she could get it out without Lisa noticing.

"Nobody move!" Lisa shouted, waving the gun. "Nobody do anything! This is between me and her!" She focused her gaze back on Andy. "I'm sorry," she said. "You seem very nice. But I can't lose that job. I'd kill for it."

"What do you want me to do?" Andy asked, desperately looking for a way to escape. Her back was to the window, and Lisa stood between her and the door. Had someone called the cops? She didn't hear any sirens. Andy hadn't been this terrified since Miranda ordered her to find the unpublished Harry Potter manuscript.

Lisa kicked the purse she'd dropped towards Andy. "My phone is inside," she said. "Outer pocket. I want you to call Miranda."

Andy found the cell phone, and flipped it open. Maybe she could call 911 herself, she thought.

"Speed dial 1," Lisa said. "And remember, the contact's name will show in the window. If you call the cops, I'll shoot."

"Okay," Andy stammered, and punched in 1. She held her breath while the phone rang, unable to tear her eyes from the gun pointing towards her face.

"Miranda Priestly's office," a snooty voice said.

"Emily!" Andy cried. "It's Andy! Don't hang up."

"What _is_ it? This is a very busy day."

"Listen," Andy said, "you'll never believe this, but the second-assistant Miranda just fired? Lisa? She's holding me at gunpoint at Ivan's Cafe."

"I don't know what on earth you expect me to do about that," Emily said. "We're having a run-through today."

"She wants me to talk to Miranda!" Andy said.

Emily sighed. "Hold on," she said. A moment later, Andy heard her voice, sounding muffled. Emily hadn't bothered to put her on hold. "Miranda," Emily called. "I'm sorry, but Andrea Sachs is on the phone. She has some story about being held at gunpoint." Andy couldn't make out the brief conversation that followed, but she recognized the annoyance in Miranda's voice. A second later, Emily was back, sounding breathless and chagrined.

"Andy, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to work out your little problems by yourself. Like I said, we're having a run-through."

"Wait, don't hang up!" Andy yelled, a second before the phone clicked silent.

"Well?" Lisa asked.

Andy glared up at her. "Miranda won't talk to me," she said. "What did you expect?"

"Shit!" Lisa shouted, stomping the floor in her stiletto boots. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Andy flinched. "Look," she said, "could you put down the gun? Maybe we can think of something."

"No," Lisa said. "I will not put down the gun. I am not doing anything until I have my job back."

"What on earth do you expect me to do?"

"I don't know!" Lisa said. "You think of something. Miranda thinks you're _so_ smart."

"Oh God," Andy gasped, trying to breathe. She tried to think of something, but her mind was blank. _Please_ she thought, _please let Emily have called the cops._ She wasn't counting on it, though. Emily didn't exactly owe Andy any favors, and anyway, Miranda probably had her so busy with the run-through that she'd forgotten all about Andy's predicament. Andy put her head between her knees, and tried not to hyperventilate.

The sound of the deli's door opening broke through her panic. Andy glanced up, and even Lisa turned her head to see who was stepping inside. Both of their jaws dropped when Miranda Priestly swept into the deli, looking fabulous, as always, in a magnificent fur coat and vintage Prada boots.

"Andrea!" she snapped.

Both Andy and Lisa started, and Miranda's glare seemed to encompass both of them.

"Put that down at once," Miranda said.

Lisa's lip trembled, and tears began rolling down her cheeks. Unsteadily, she turned and pointed the gun at Miranda instead.

"Please give me my job back," she said, her voice trembling.

"Don't be ridiculous, Andrea," Miranda said, her voice as calm and scornful as ever. She'd lifted an eyebrow when Lisa turned the gun on her, but other than that, her expression didn't change a bit. She looked like she had guns pointed at her every day. Well, Andy conceded, she _was_ Miranda Priestly. Andy had wanted to shoot her a few times herself.

Miranda extended one perfectly-manicured hand, palm up. "Give me the gun," she said.

Lisa sniffled. "I can't," she said.

"Give me the gun," Miranda repeated, in a voice that left no room for argument.

Lisa hesitated, glancing around the deli. Miranda tapped her foot.

"Lisa," she said, more gently. At the sound of her name, Lisa began crying even harder. "You've already ruined your future at Runway," Miranda said. "Do you really want to go to prison as well?"

Breaking into sobs, Lisa lowered the gun, and buried her face in her free hand. Miranda's heels clicked on the deli floor as she stepped forward and easily plucked the gun from Lisa's loose grip. Andy gaped as Miranda tucked it neatly inside her bag.

"Come along, Andrea," Miranda said, starting towards the door.

Feeling numb, Andy glanced at Lisa, who'd collapsed onto the floor. Without the gun, she looked like a little girl who'd just been told there was no Santa Claus. Andy almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

"Andrea," Miranda said from the doorway. Her voice was tinged with annoyance, and without thinking, Andy scrabbled for her purse and hurried after her, automatically falling in one step behind the other woman, as she had when she was Miranda's second assistant.

Miranda's car was waiting on the street outside. Miranda slid into the backseat, and Andy clumsily climbed in after her, still numb with relief and confusion.

"Elias Clark," Miranda said, and Roy pulled back into the street.

Andy hugged herself, trying not to shake. Miranda shot her a disgusted look.

"Compose yourself, Andrea," she said.

Andy looked up at her. "You saved my life," she whispered.

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Don't be so melodramatic," she said. "She hadn't even turned the safety off."

Andy thought about asking how Miranda knew that, but decided against it. "Why did you fire her?" she asked.

"She was incompetent," Miranda said. "I must have told her a dozen times that I like my coffee hot."

"You mean she might have killed me just because you got lukewarm coffee this morning?"

Miranda lifted an eyebrow at the note of hysteria in Andy's voice. "I demand excellence, Andrea," she explained, as though she were talking to a particularly stupid two-year-old. "Even you should remember that."

The car pulled to a stop outside the Elias Clark building. Miranda turned to Andy.

"Stop by my house this evening, around eight," she said. "I trust you'll have calmed yourself by then."

"Your house?" Andy stammered.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Miranda said. "And Andrea?"

"Yes?" Andy squeaked.

"Wear something in silk. Polyester does not suit you."

Finis.


End file.
